While the Northern Pacific Ocean is the loneliest stretch of salt water in the world, yet it possesses one or two busy corners. Prominent among the latter is that where it washes the shores of the United States around the entrance to the mighty Columbia River. The estuary is wide, and, although navigation is handicapped by a bar, it is well protected. But coming up from the south there is a stretch of terribly forbidding coastline, with the cliffs at places towering 1,500 feet or more into the air and dropping sheer into the water. Rock-slides are of frequent occurrence, and the beach is littered with heavy falls from above. Here and there protuberances rise from the sea, formed of rock sufficiently dense and hard to withstand more effectively the process of erosion, only to constitute fearful menaces to navigation. Often the mainland is completely obscured, either by streaks of mist or heavy clouds of smoke produced by forest fires, which in the dry season rage with great violence. A ship caught within the toils of this stern coast has no possible chance of escape, while the crew would find it difficult to get ashore, inasmuch as at places there is not a single landing-place within a distance of twenty miles.

Owing to the coast being frequently blotted from view, and to the fact that this stretch of sea is swept by furious storms, the plight of the mariner making to or from the Columbia River became exceedingly precarious. The worst tragedy of these waters was enacted on the dark and stormy night of January 3, 1881, when the sailing-ship Lupata lost her way and went to pieces on the rocks off Tillamook Head.

Under these circumstances it is not surprising that an outcry arose for protection along this lonely reach of Oregon’s jagged shoreline. The authorities responded to the agitation by the promise to erect a lighthouse, once they should have decided the site, which was the really perplexing question. In the first instance it was thought that its location upon the mainland would suffice, but a survey betrayed the futility of such a choice. The light would be too elevated to be of any service; for the greater part of its time it would be rendered invisible by land fogs. Then, again, it would mean cutting a road for a distance of twenty miles through heavy, undulating country and primeval forest to gain the point, as the verdant sea of green timber extends to the very brink of the cliffs.

After prolonged consideration, it was decided to erect the light upon the Tillamook Rock. This is a hard mass of basalt, rising boldly from the water to a height of 120 feet, which, when viewed from one side, presented the appearance of a clenched fist. It stands about a mile off the mainland, twenty miles south of the Columbia River mouth, and drops plumb into the sea, where the lead gives readings ranging from 96 to 240 feet. The whole area of the rock is less than one acre, and it is split almost in two; another isolated knot of basalt, upon which the seas break heavily when a storm is raging, rears its shaggy head into the air near by at low-tide. The only possible landing-point is on the east side, where there is a beach sloping upwards sharply from the water to the crest. When the ocean is roused the sight certainly is terrifying. The waves fall with shivering force upon the base of the rock, to rush up its ragged sides and sweep right over its crest in a dense curtain of angrily frothing water and whipping spray.

Despite its fearsome character, this rock constituted the most serviceable situation for a light, for the reason that, being a mile from the shore, it was free from land fogs and clouds. The decision of the authorities depended upon three factors only—that a landing could be made, the rock occupied, and the requisite building materials unloaded. The introduction of such a saving clause was politic, because at first it seemed as if the rock would defy the gaining of a foothold. The ghastly failure attending the survey, as described in a previous chapter, brought public opinion into dead opposition to the project, and many fearsome stories were circulated sedulously up and down the coast and among the towns fringing the Columbia River concerning the perils, hardships, and terrible death-roll, which would attend any attempt to place a beacon on this rock.

After the disaster the authorities pressed forward the enterprise with greater vigour than ever, so as to get work well under way before public opinion would be able to make its influence felt upon the unsophisticated minds of workmen required to carry out the undertaking. A daring, determined, and energetic leader was secured in Mr. A. Ballantyne, and he was deputed to rally a force of eight or more highly skilled quarrymen with whom to proceed to Astoria, where the land headquarters were to be established. He was informed that upon arrival at this point he would find everything in readiness for his immediate departure to the rock, with all essentials to enable him to commence work at once and to provide quarters for the workmen, who would be compelled to suffer isolation and a certain amount of discomfort for weeks at a time. It was impossible to take more than a handful of men at first, owing to the difficulty of landing provisions.

Mr. Ballantyne started off with his small picked force, reached Astoria on September 24, 1879, and there suffered his first check. The autumn gales had sprung up, rendering approach to the rock absolutely hopeless. There was no alternative; he must wait until the weather moderated. As this might be a question of a few hours, days, or perhaps a week or two, the chief grew anxious concerning his force. If the men, having nothing to do, wandered idly about the town, making acquaintance with all and sundry and listening to gossip, then they could not fail to be impressed with the extraordinary stories concerning dangers, hardships, perils, and adventures; would conclude that the Tillamook was a “hoodoo” rock; and would desert him promptly. To guard against this contingency, the quarrymen were hurried off and temporarily housed in the old light-keeper’s dwelling at the Cape Disappointment light, some miles away on the northern portal of the estuary, where they were safe from pernicious influences.

After twenty-six days of enforced idleness the squad was picked up by a revenue cutter, which steamed to the rock, and made fast to a buoy that had been laid previously for mooring the vessels deputed to transport building materials and other requirements. With extreme difficulty four men were got on the rock, together with a supply of hammers, drills, iron ring-bolts, a stove, provisions, supplies, and an abundance of canvas, with which the advance staff were to erect temporary shelters and to make themselves as comfortable as they could. While the work was in progress the wind freshened, the swell rose, and the boat had to retire hurriedly before the remainder of the force could be landed; but five days later they were transferred to the rock, together with further provisions and supplies, as well as a derrick.

The little party soon received a taste of what life would be in this lonely spot. Three days after the second landing, and before they had shaken down to their strange surroundings, a gale sprang up. Heavy seas pounded the rock, and the waves, mounting its vertical face, threw themselves over its crest, drenching the workmen and their sleeping blankets. It was a startling episode, but it became so frequent that the quarrymen became inured to their fate, and were not perturbed in any way, except when the Pacific was roused to exceptional fury.

When the first four men gained the rock it was seen that the landing of material, especially the heavier incidentals, would constitute the greatest difficulty. Then an ingenious idea was advanced. Why not rig a heavy rope between the mast of the vessel and the top of the rock, draw it taut, and devise a traveller to run to and fro? It was a practical suggestion and was adopted forthwith. With much difficulty a 4½-inch rope was towed from the vessel—to the mast of which one end was secured—to the rock, and grabbed by those in occupation. This end was anchored firmly, and constituted the track. Then a large single block was rigged to this main line in such a way that it could move freely to and fro along the cable. This block was provided with a heavy hook on which the weights could be slung. Other blocks were fixed on the vessel and on the rock, while an endless line, passing through these blocks at each end, and attached to the shank of the hook on the travelling block, enabled the traveller to be pulled freely and easily in either direction.

Both men and supplies were transferred from ship to shore by this primitive, albeit ingenious, system. The men were carried in a novel device, described as a “breeches-buoy,” such as is used with the rocket life-saving apparatus, but of very crude design improvised on the spot. It was contrived from an ordinary circular rubber life-preserver, to which a pair of trousers cut short at the knees were lashed tightly. This was suspended from the block-hook by means of three short lengths of rope. The trip through the air certainly was novel, and not free from excitement; indeed, there was just sufficient spice of adventure about it to appeal to the rough-and-ready, intrepid spirits who constituted the forces of the lighthouse engineer. Also, owing to the primitive character of the apparatus, there was just the chance that something would go wrong when the man was between ship and rock. The breeches were provided to hold the man in a safe position while in the air, to guard against a loss of balance and tipping out; while should anything give way, and the man make an unexpected plunge into the water, the life-preserver would keep him afloat until a boat could draw alongside to rescue him.

There was another factor which had to be taken into consideration, and which certainly contributed to the novelty of the trip. As the boat responded to the action of the waves the rope alternately drew tight and sagged. When she rolled towards the rock the cable was slackened, and the man generally had a ducking; the next moment, when the vessel rolled in the opposite direction, he was whisked unceremoniously and suddenly into the air. It was like being suspended at the end of a piece of elastic. The men for the most part enjoyed the fun of the journey, and considered it a new and exhilarating “divarshun.” Among themselves the effort was to travel in either direction so as to escape a cold douche on the journey. When the water was rough, speculation took the form of guessing how many dips into the water would be made before either terminus was gained.

This novel landing method provoked one amusing incident. The supply-boat came out to the rock one day bringing a new raw hand. The cableway was rigged up, and the workman prepared for his ride to the rock. But the man was somewhat corpulent, and could not be thrust through the preserver. This was an unexpected contretemps, and it seemed as if the superintendent would have to let his recruit return. But Ballantyne did not worry over trifles, neither did he relish the idea of losing a hand after having him brought so far, so he put forward a somewhat daring proposal. He told the captain of the steamer to lash the workman to the top of the buoy, and they would pull him ashore all right. The labourer was scared out of his wits at this suggestion, and resented being handled as if he were a balk of timber. Why, even the perishable articles were unloaded in casks to protect them from the wet. He expressed his determination to see them to perdition before he would make a trip through the air under such conditions. Ballantyne was somewhat crestfallen at the cold reception of his brilliant idea, so told the captain to take the workman back to Astoria, and to ransack the place to discover a buoy which would be big enough to fit him.

Two days later the vessel returned with the larger buoy and also the corpulent quarryman. His second glimpse of the primitive travelling frightened him worse than ever, and he point blank refused to budge. In order to reassure the raw hand, Ballantyne hauled the buoy ashore, and, jumping into it, made a journey, to illustrate that the system was perfectly safe, and that one need not even get wet. But Ballantyne’s demonstration was rather unfortunate. The cable was slack, and the ship rolled heavily. Result: the superintendent was dragged through the water for nearly the whole distance, and at times nothing of him could be seen. When he landed on the boat, half-winded and drenched to the skin, the quarryman was scared more than ever, and announced his intention to return to Astoria. Ballantyne cajoled, coaxed, argued, and stormed, in turn, but to no avail. Then another idea came to his fertile mind. If the man would not travel via the breeches-buoy, why not send him ashore in a bos’n’s chair? This was rigged up satisfactorily, and therein the workman consented to go ashore, though not without the display of considerable trepidation and anxiety to keep out of the water. They got him on the rock safely, and without so much as wetting the soles of his feet. The quarryman by his resolute opposition set up a record. He was the first man to land dry on the Tillamook.

Subsequently this novel and, so far as it went, efficient method of “quick transit” was superseded when the men on the rock got their big derrick to work. The long arm of this appliance leaned over the water far enough to pick up the goods direct from the deck of the vessel moored off the rock. This system was quicker, and enabled the goods to be got ashore unsoiled.

The first men to land found the rock in the occupation of sea-lions, who swarmed its scaly sides in huge numbers, even making their way to the crest to bask in the sunshine. These tenants at first resented the white man’s invasion, and were somewhat troublesome; but at last they recognized that their eviction was certain, so suddenly deserted in a body to another equally wild spot farther south.

The first task was the preparation of the site for the building. The fist-like overhanging crest was attacked to prepare a foundation, thereby reducing the height from 120 to 91 feet. The rock surface was scarred and riven in a fantastic manner, owing to the scouring action of the waves eroding the soft portions leaving the hard rock behind in the form of needles, scales, and ugly crevices. The outer part of the rock, moreover, was found to be of an unreliable character, being more or less rotten, while the core, on the other hand, was intensely hard, and promised an excellent foundation for the beacon. The superfluous mass was removed by blasting, this being carried out with extreme care and in small sections at a time. The largest blasts did not remove more than 130 cubic yards, or tons, of dÉbris at one time. This slow blasting, by handfuls as it were, was necessary so as not to shatter or impair the solidity of the heart of the rock, which was to support the buildings.

Drilling and blasting were carried out in the face of great difficulties. Rain, rough seas, spray, and heavy winds, combined to thwart the little band of workers toiling strenuously in solemn loneliness upon this bleak crag. Often days would pass without any tangible impression being made upon the surface. The drilling holes would be swamped, and unless care was observed the powder charges ran the risk of being damped and rendered impotent or uncertain in firing. In the attack upon the crest the workmen distributed themselves around the crown. On the precipitous side, as there was not a friendly ledge on which to secure a foothold to work the drills, bolts were driven into the rock-face, from which staging was suspended by ropes, and on this swinging, crazy foothold the men drove their tools with salt fleece whirling round them.

Until the men were able to erect more or less permanent quarters, their plight at times was pitiable. The canvas was cut up and an A-tent was rigged up. It was a cramped home, measuring 16 feet long by 6 feet wide, while the ridge pole was only 4½ feet above the ground. This domicile just held the ten men in their sleeping-blankets. Naturally, they had to crawl rather than walk about, and, as the shelter served as a dining-room as well, the little band had to tolerate many discomforts. When the wind howled round the rock, causing the canvas to flap violently and threatening to carry it away at every turn, when the sea swarmed over the rock, and when the heavy rains to which this coast is subject poured down pitilessly, the men never knew what it was to have dry clothing or bedding. Cooking was carried on in the open, and the kitchen arrangements had to be shifted from time to time, according to the direction of the wind, so that the fire was brought on the lee side of the shelter.

The workers were exposed to danger on all sides incessantly, but fortunately in their chief, Ballantyne, they had one of those men who appear to be made for such contingencies; who was alert, ready for any emergency, nursed his staff sedulously, and whose buoyant spirits dispelled all feelings of gloom, loneliness, or homesickness. The little band toiled hard and long through the rough autumnal weather, and the arrival of stern winter did not bring any cessation in their labours. They fought the rock grimly and ignored hardship. Certainly, they were cheered by the arrival of the boats with supplies, but occasionally a fortnight or more would pass without a call being made at the rock, and often, when a boat did come up and prepare to land material, it had to slip its anchor hastily to make a frantic run for safety before the rising swell and the gathering storm.

Early in January Nature concentrated her forces, as if bent upon a supreme effort to shake the determination and courage of the little army striving so valiantly upon the rock. On the night of New Year’s Day the clouds assumed an ominous appearance, and accordingly the workmen were not surprised to meet a stormy and rainy reception when they made their way to their duties the following morning. The weather grew worse on the third day, the spray enveloping the rock and drenching the men, while the wind blew so fiercely that they could scarcely keep their feet. During the next two days it increased in force, while the sea grew angrier. On the 6th the elements were raging in torment, and in the afternoon Ballantyne, taking stock of the meteorological signs, came to the conclusion that the party “were in for it.” A hurricane, or possibly a tornado, was looming. The tools were being swung with infinite difficulty, when suddenly came the signal “Stop work!” Ballantyne urged them to set to at once to lash everything securely. At six o’clock in the evening the hurricane burst, and the workmen witnessed a sight such as they had never seen before. The whole coast was in the grip of a tornado, of which the Tillamook Rock was the vortex, whereon the elements concentrated their destructive forces. The huge rollers assumed an uglier appearance than ever; the broken water rushed up the steep sides into the air, where it was caught by the whirling wind and dashed on the tiny camp. It was impossible to escape that savage attack, as it was driven home from all sides simultaneously. The men took to their permanent quarters in silence and very gloomy. By midnight the roof was being peppered with huge masses of rock, which, detached by the waves, were caught up and thrown clean over the rock. Ballantyne urged the men to stay in their bunks, to keep up their spirits, and to seek a little rest.

But sleep was impossible. The quarrymen were scared out of their wits, and there was every cause for their dismay. It seemed as if the very rock itself must succumb to the savage onslaught. The din was deafening; the rock shivered and trembled as the breakers hurled themselves upon it.

It had just turned two. Suddenly one and all sat up in terror. There was a fearful crash—a rending and splitting, which was heard plainly above the weird howling of the hurricane. The men tumbled out of their bunks panic-stricken, and were about to stampede from their shelter to seek refuge upon a higher ledge. But Ballantyne’s pluck asserted itself. He, too, had been scared by the awful noise, but he collected his scattered wits more quickly than did his comrades. He grasped the situation, and with iron nerve commanded all the men to stick tightly where they were. An ugly rush seemed imminent, but he stood with his back to the door, and in plain English dared the men to leave their cover. Any man who attempted to fight his way to the upper refuge would be swept overboard by the wind and sea. The quarrymen were not cowards, and Ballantyne’s action steadied them. Then the foreman announced his intention to go out to see what had happened. He grabbed a storm-lantern and opened the door. Instantly he was hurled back by the wind and sea, which appeared to be submerging the rock. For two hours he stood waiting an opportunity to slip out against the hurricane. At last he succeeded, and in the intense darkness endeavoured to grope his way over the rock. He had been gone only a few minutes when he staggered back, battered, shaken, and almost exhausted. He could not make headway against the gale. So the men sat down and silently waited the approach of dawn. Then they found that the rushing waves had fallen upon the building in which all their supplies were stored, had smashed it to atoms, and had destroyed and carried away nearly all the provisions, the fresh-water tank, and other articles, although the requisites for work were left untouched. It was the break-up of this storehouse which had woke them from their slumbers and had provoked the panic.

For ten days the gale raged, being more furious on some days than others. When it decreased in fury the men were able to settle to their work for an hour or two, but progress was painfully slow; on other days not a tool could be picked up. On the 18th the revenue cutter came out from Astoria to ascertain how the men had weathered the tornado, and the signal for coal and provisions was answered immediately by the lowering of a surf-boat. The sailors had a stiff pull to reach the rock, found that the men still had a scanty supply of hard bread, coffee, and bacon—this was all—and, taking off the letters, promised to send supplies immediately. The construction ship also came up; the captain sent ashore all the provisions he could spare, and undertook to return at once with a full supply. But another ten days passed before the sea went down enough to permit these to be landed, together with five more men.

Nature appeared to capitulate after this terrible assault, and work proceeded rapidly. The crest of the rock was removed and levelled off, to form an excellent platform for the reception of the beacon and other buildings. An inclined tramway was excavated out of the rock-face, communicating with the landing-stage, to facilitate the haulage of the light-keepers’ necessities, and then the arrangements for the completion of the building were hurried forward.

When the public saw that the work was being accomplished without loss to life or limb, and that the plucky little party of toilers weathered the gales, an intense interest was manifested in the undertaking. The foreman was provided with an international code of signals, and passing vessels, as an act of courtesy and in recognition of the work that was being done to further their safety, always stood towards the rock to render assistance in case it was required. The workmen appreciated this feeling, and on two occasions, during dense fog, intimated to captains who had lost their way, and were groping blindly round the rock, that they were venturing into dangerous waters. The warning was primitive but effective. It comprised the explosion of giant-powder cartridges over the sea in the direction whence the ships’ sirens sounded. In both instances the navigators heard the signals in the nick of time, and were able to steer clear.

The lighthouse itself comprises a group of buildings for the keepers, from which rises a square tower 48 feet in height, bringing the light 132 feet above mean high-water. The dwelling is built of stone, measures 48 feet by 45 feet, and is one story in height. In addition there is an extension for housing the powerful siren and its machinery. The building contains adequate living-quarters, together with storage rooms and a kitchen. As this light is particularly lonely, four keepers are stationed on the rock, and their rooms each have a clear length of 12 feet by 10 feet wide. Also, as the rock is so difficult to approach, and relief may suffer extreme delay from adverse weather, sufficient provisions are stored to insure full rations for six months.

The light is of the first order, of 160,000 candle-power, and is visible at a distance of eighteen miles in clear weather. It is a brilliant white flashing beam, occurring once every five seconds, the flash being of two seconds, followed by an eclipse of three seconds. The fog-siren is likewise of the first order, driven by steam-engines. This plant is in duplicate, and the signal is given every forty-five seconds, the blast being of five seconds, followed by silence for forty seconds.

The conquest of the Tillamook Rock has been one of the most difficult tasks that the United States Lighthouse Board ever has accomplished. The little band of quarrymen who braved danger, hardship, and privation, effected occupation of the rock on October 21, 1879, and the light was exhibited for the first time on January 21, 1881, the total time occupied in the task being 575 days. It has robbed the dreaded Oregon coast of one of its worst perils, and the money which was devoted to the provision of this stalwart guardian—£24,698, or $123,493—was indeed expended to good purpose.